Tudor Rose Page 8

  January 1566

  W,

  Not to give offense, but I’m not positive you’re in complete control of your faculties. Why have you involved the queen so early in my stay in London? I don’t think we’re ready for such a step and suggest we meet to discuss halting the wheels you have set in motion.

  Until then, I will continue the simple task of assembling the “army” you requested. I only wish my talents were being challenged.

  Ready for more,

  R

  FIVE

  “God wouldn’t want us to be in pain.”

  The whispered words were ropes slowly pulling Howell Digby up out of the murky dreams of a deep sleep. Fighting to stay submerged, he held Sybille tightly, one beefy arm under her and the other draped over. Through her scratchy gown he could feel the warmth of her body. Finally. Oh God, finally.

  After all the years of watching her and praying for this, his body responded with an ecstatic surge.

  Thank you. Thank you.

  But something about this embrace was off. Like swimming naked in the pond back home in Gordonsrod where the tepid water felt somehow refreshing and filthy at the same time.

  Distracting thoughts about logistics and questions about how this moment could even be happening were rising. Not now. He pushed them away as he pulled Sybille closer. All monks slept in robes—a practice that Howell damned now. But even through the coarse fabric he could feel her heartbeat thrumming against his powerful chest.

  Sybille’s hand squeezed between their bodies. For a tantalizing moment the back of her wrist pressed against his navel. Then the hand turned and brushed against him in a way that made him quiver.

  Howell moaned. Finally. Yes, Sybille. Finally.

  Sleep crumbled more. He fought against waking up and the reality that would come with it.

  Howell stroked Sybille’s face. And that did it. Instantly, he was awake. The brush of whiskers against his fingers was all it took.

  Oh. Damn. Of course.

  Howell forced himself not to jerk his hand away from the bristly cheek. Instead he slowly withdrew it and wriggled his trapped arm free from beneath the person next to him. He swung his meaty thighs around until his stockinged feet touched the icy stone floor. Fool. Fool. Fool. This was London. Not Gordonsrod.

  “God wouldn’t want us to be in pain,” the young man in the cot repeated, murmuring from somewhere in half-sleep. Only a few short curls of his red hair were visible in the dim moonlight.

  “Shh,” Howell hushed, then shivered from the cold. He could see his breath. “Go back to sleep, Ben.”

  Lumbering upright, his back muscles popping, Howell shuffled back to his own cold cot and climbed beneath the thin blanket that covered only a third of his body. Through the thin slit of a window, the moon was just disappearing over the western horizon.

  It was still too early to get up and start the day. The city curfew wouldn’t lift until dawn. And there would be no candles or torches lit, no movement, in the monastery. Which was rare and bad timing for Howell who needed distraction. The maniacally strict Abbot Carey, who was certain that the monastery would be shut down at any moment by the queen, wanted to stuff all the humiliation and suffering of lost future decades into what little time remained.

  All that rigorous scheduling and unrelenting repetition actually appealed to Howell. He wanted Lauds at dawn, followed by Prime, and then Sext and None before dinner, Vespers at six in the evening, and Matins at midnight. He wanted a day overcrowded with those services, chores, and menial tasks, and to throw himself into his faith and his studies. He wanted the crushing weight to bury him, to force him to forget the girl who even now had him up and aching at two in the morning in the cold monastery cell he shared with sweet and simple Ben.

  With no fire to heat the room—Abbot Carey found such luxuries to be wasteful—the boys often slept in the same cot ass to ass just to stay warm. Sadly, Howell would have to put a stop to that now. He had been very close to doing something he would regret. It wasn’t so much for fear of getting caught or even that God forbade it. He knew for a fact that it went on all the time in the monastery. Being with boys, or nearly every girl on Earth for that matter, just wasn’t something Howell was after.

  He wanted Sybille.

  He realized it didn’t make sense, and he knew the type of woman she was. But that didn’t help the stabs of pain he felt in his gut each time he thought of a life without her.

  Automatically, he reached to stroke the pendant around his neck for comfort. But, of course, like the phantom Sybille he had just been cradling in his arms, that too was gone. No family heirloom. No prospects for a future back in Gordonsrod, except for starvation. And now possibly no roof over his head if the monastery were to shut down.

  Howell was more adrift than ever.

  “Hmmm,” Ben groaned, finding release somewhere in his dreams, or maybe in his hand. Howell shook his head with a small smile. In a way, he admired Ben. The boy looked at things in an uncomplicated light. You were in pain, you did something about it. Maybe Howell should follow Ben’s way of thinking. Go after what he wanted. Do something about it.

  Yes! That was exactly what he should be doing!

  Howell popped back to his feet, ready for action. Then quickly realized—again—there was nothing to be done physically yet. It was still too early. He sank back down onto the cot and made a plan in his head of what he would do when the monks rose for first prayer.

  First, he’d see to easing the tension caused by the dreams about Sybille. It would take more than the usual two buckets of cold rainwater to do the trick this morning.

  Then Howell would go to the one spot he knew he would find Sybille. Sooner or later, she would have to show up there.

  After all, it was the cathedral where she was to be married in just a few weeks.

  On the monastery steps, just outside the door to the kitchen, a pathetic pile of children waited. Their gray tattered rags, filthy faces, and greasy hair made it difficult to tell one apart from the other in the squirming mass of dirty arms and legs. They hadn’t yet been shooed away by Brother Michael, the monastery’s cook. Or maybe they had returned, knowing an easy target would soon be emerging.

  Howell had his own reasons for coming to London to study and become a monk. And while faith might not be at the top of that list, he still believed in God, and a benevolent one at that. Howell’s first instinct was to give the poor little beggars something to eat. This morning, as always, he had saved a bit of bread from breakfast. He ripped it into pieces and scattered it on the dirty ground. The few times he had handed it out, the scene had erupted into fighting among the starving children and shouts of “That’s mine!” As revolting as it was, Howell had determined that just leaving the bread on the ground was the fairest form of distribution possible.

  Other monks and acolytes complained about Brother Michael’s cooking and the small portions, but to Howell it was a feast. Even in the short period of time since his arrival in London, he knew his body had responded to the food like a plant to the sun. He was stronger physically. Now he just needed to bring his wounded heart into line.

  All around him, grubby hands worked fast, and the bread disappeared into mouths before Howell could even get two steps away along the brown, slushy street. The children followed him, pitifully asking for more and pulling at his robes. The Abbot himself had warned him not to encourage the scoundrels—they would only multiply like rats if you fed them. He could see the Abbot was right about their numbers at least—they had multiplied overnight. There were new faces, but not the one he was looking for.

  “Where’s the little one?” Howell asked, careful not to kick any of the children as he strode along.

  “I’m here!” a cur missing his right arm chirped, and then another imp repeated, “I’m here!”

  “No.” Howell shook his head. “The very, very little one.”

  “What?” the one-armed child asked. “Absur
d?”

  “Yes, him.” Howell had developed a fondness for one of the smaller beggars. He was a ridiculously tiny child who was always proclaiming that Howell was absurd. And that the tiny pieces of bread were equally absurd. In fact, to him, all of London was simply one endless parade of absurd thing after absurd thing.

  The one-armed child held out his grimy hand, looking for more food or money in return for information. Howell had no more to offer. “Tomorrow morning,” he said. “I’ll give the bread directly to you and you can share it with the others.”

  As the boy stopped to think it over, Howell continued walking. After a moment he felt the child touch his elbow. “Billingsgate Market. At the School.”

  Howell frowned. The infamous School was no place for a tiny runt like Absurd. “You boys stay here,” he commanded the pack gravely. Of course they didn’t listen. They trotted along after him but got tired of being ignored after a few minutes. By the time Howell reached crowded Billingsgate Market, with its shouting vendors and stench of rotting meat and fish, he was walking alone.

  Howell took a moment to get his bearings. He was still getting used to London’s endless crowds of people and the confusing twists and turns of its countless streets. Back in Gordonsrod, he’d simply ask someone for assistance if he had a problem. Wondering if the same plan would work here, Howell approached a black-haired woman who was decapitating catfish with a long blade and tossing the heads into a cart.

  “I need your help, please,” Howell said to the woman, who just kept cleaving off heads for a moment until she glanced up.

  “Hullo, goose,” the woman said, taking in Howell’s monastic robes with a toothless grin. “You’re quite the gander, aren’t you?” Never taking her eyes off Howell, she leaned over to the next vendor and nudged him as if saying, You’ve got to see this.

  Howell felt heat rise to his cheeks. He didn’t like being put on display. “I’m looking for the School,” he said.

  “The School?” the fishmonger asked as if musing upon the wonders of the universe. “For a beauty such as yourself, I might have an idea for the right price … or personal gesture. Perhaps you’d like to meet around—”

  “Leave him be,” the other vendor interrupted the woman, and then to Howell, he said, “Go on back to the flock, little gosling, before someone plucks your feathers.”

  Howell protested, but the man just kept making shooing gestures. As Howell moved away, he heard the whine of the fishmonger. “Oh, why not have a bit of sport? Life isn’t all fish heads, is it?”

  Well, that could’ve been more fruitful, Howell thought. He would need to find his own way. Taking a guess, he dove down one of the side alleys that spun away from the market’s main square. It led to a dead end, and Howell cursed his judgment, imagining what Abbot Carey would say about this side adventure and the valuable time he was wasting … all for some tiny scamp who would more than likely be dead within the year. Howell would try one more alley and if that wasn’t it, he would give up.

  As with the other alley, two story-houses jammed either side of the narrow passage, leaning haphazardly on their neighbors as if the smallest of breezes would send them all toppling. Just a few steps off the square, Howell came across a house whose front door and adjacent window were wide open. Without trying to conceal himself or his interest, Howell stepped in front of the window and knew immediately he had found the right place.

  Just next to the window was a room that might have started out as a parlour when the house was first built. Now it was tarted up like a cheap playhouse. Twenty or so people were sitting on stools or on the floor, while others were standing, leaning against the crumbling walls. From what little Howell knew about the School, he had expected the crowd to be filled with the dregs of society. That wasn’t the case. A diverse mix of men, women, and children of all types and manner of dress–from rags to fashions of the middle class—faced the right side of the room where a low platform had been built in front of the boarded-up hearth.

  Scanning the crowd, Howell didn’t spot Absurd but he was not very surprised to spy Sybille’s brother, Robert, in attendance. Knowing Robert’s hellion ways from growing up together in Gordonsrod, Howell figured this would be just the kind of place that would attract him. His forehead and cheeks showed the bruises from yesterday’s football game. One of Robert’s hands rested on the knee of the person next to him, a well-dressed woman with a hood pulled over her head, concealing her face.

  Howell considered Robert a friend, of course, but he didn’t wave or call out to him. There was no saving the stubborn Robert from whatever path he was on—and Howell didn’t want his friend making a big, public fuss and trying to drag him into the house.

  Howell was just happy that Absurd wasn’t in need of rescuing from the bad influence of the School. He was turning to walk back down the alley when a heavy, balding man popped up onto the simple platform stage. The stage creaked under his shoes and the tufts of brown hair on either side of his head danced as the man bounced excitedly about.

  “Oh, my gorgeous sweethearts, my stellar children!” the man cried gaily, and Howell saw warm smiles grow on the audience’s faces. “Let me begin today’s class by telling you a tale of tragedy and woe!”

  Ah, so this must be the infamous Anthony Wootton. Howell had heard the name more than a few times. Wootton, as the story went, had been born a gentleman and worked as a merchant before tossing aside all convention and opening a school for pickpockets.

  “For this very important lesson, I’ll need a few volunteers!” Wootton announced.

  Hands shot up and Wootton made a big show of selecting a small girl, a man in his twenties, and an older woman. When they were onstage, Wootton tied a purse to each of their waists and stepped back.

  “Once upon a time,” he told his audience, “when I was a child, way back before the world was born, ha! … this was all any decent bung nipper had to do for a handful of goodness.”

  There was a blur of movement, and in a flash Wootton was holding up the three purses for all to see. Somehow he had sliced through the purse strings without anyone even noticing, and he must have done it at an angle because each purse had one cut string that was longer than the other. The audience clapped and roared its approval. Howell found himself wanting to join the applause.

  “Well done, maestro!” Robert shouted and hooted while the hooded woman next to him remained perfectly still.

  Dipping his head in thanks, Wootton drew the volunteers closer to the front of the stage where they chuckled nervously, wondering what his next demonstration might entail.

  “Yes, yes, purses are easy pickings, are they not, my delectable students?” Wootton gushed. “Unfortunately, they seem to be in danger of extinction!” There was some booing from the audience. Wootton grinned. “Yes, it’s true! A bit of madness has come along to lay waste to all my dreams and hopes.” He dug a hand into the slit at the side of the man’s pants and yanked out a tuft of fabric. He did the same by reaching into the folds of the girl’s and the woman’s dresses. Then Wootton jumped back as if the cloth had bitten him. “They call these latest monstrosities of fashion pockets. I call them spawn of the most dark lord’s desires.”

  Several people laughed at his over-the-top teaching style, and it only seemed to encourage the showman in Wootton. “This invention haunts us, it taunts us,” he proclaimed, his bright eyes flashing like lightning. “But we won’t take the pocket’s abuses, will we? No! Instead, we will penetrate it. We will stealthily plumb its depths and mine it for more riches than any of you could possibly hope for. We will become the master foisters that I know you, all my glorious angels, can be!”

  Once again, Howell found himself being drawn in by the pure energy of the man. He imagined himself as a wealthy thief, tossing a few coins at Aunt Clemence and taking back his family heirloom—and then dripping gold necklaces and jewels down onto Sybille’s eager, outstretched body.

  “Come, join us!” Wootton called. �
��Those robes could hide much treasure. No reason to give it all to the kingdom of God!”

  A split second passed before Howell realized Wootton was talking to him.

  As heads began to turn in his direction, Howell leapt away from the window and hurried down the alley. Even thoughts of stealing made him feel ashamed, and Howell hoped he had gotten out of sight before Robert—or any of the students—had the chance to recognize him.

  “Oh, well, maybe. Maybe that would work … ”

  The musing, showy voice woke Rose. With her head still on the pillow, Rose rubbed her eyes, wincing at the pain. Her left cheek was still tender from where Avis had landed a blow the night before in the great hall. With the queen’s Challenge—and Avis’s handprint—still fresh, Rose hadn’t slept last night. A gala? Rose had to plan a gala event? She wasn’t sure what a gala even was. Confused thoughts and the memory of the three girls’ shrieking public confrontation had kept her awake until she had finally drifted off just moments ago.

  Bad timing to be so groggy, she realized when her eyes focused on Sybille standing by the fire wearing a flat, tight smile on her face. Rose knew that particular smile all too well. She’d need a clear head to get through this morning unscathed.

  Grunting like a bad actor in a cheap sideshow, Sybille jabbed at the cold coals with the poker as if it required supreme effort. A thin scratch started at her collarbone, ran along the top of her breasts, and disappeared under her nightclothes. More evidence of last night’s brawl.

  Rose shut her eyes again, hoping that Sybille might decide to abandon whatever plot she had been piecing together and just give Rose the morning to collect her thoughts. Ever since they had left Gordonsrod, Rose’s fate had been tied too closely to Sybille’s. It was like being bound to a moth in a windstorm. The scene at the banquet last night was proof of that. Things had escalated from a minor skirmish to an epic confrontation with the highest power in the land. Rose had no control over her own life and she needed that problem to end—especially if she wanted to get closer to the queen. She needed to claim the reins of her destiny, and do it quickly.